


In the Hands of the Enemy

by Zoejoy24



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Kidnapping, Knight Gil Arroyo, Malcolm Bright Whump, Prince Malcolm, Whumptober, arrow wound, held for ransom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26796781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoejoy24/pseuds/Zoejoy24
Summary: Despite his involvement in multiple skirmishes, and clashes with groups of bandits large and small, Prince Malcolm of Milton has counted himself lucky to be among those who had never been struck with an arrow in the midst of combat.Until today.--For Whumptober prompts Kidnapped and "Pick who dies"Also fills the Shot with an Arrow square on my BTHB card.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947349
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Bad Things Happen, Whumptober 2020





	In the Hands of the Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the world of my Medieval AU [To Serve a Heart of Sovereignty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135398/chapters/55363396), at some undetermined point. It's not really part of _that_ story, I just needed to borrow that world for the purposes of shooting Malcolm with an arrow.
> 
> If you haven't read TSaHoS, pretty much all you need to know is that Malcolm is a Prince, and Gil is his knight, and Martin is still a bad man, although nobody but Malcolm knows that.

Despite his involvement in multiple skirmishes, and clashes with groups of bandits large and small, Malcolm has counted himself lucky to be among those who had never been struck with an arrow in the midst of combat. 

Until today. 

Today, as he’d been riding through well patrolled lands, with two young squires as his only companions.

It’s not an experience that he ever wishes to repeat.

Their attackers had caught them completely by surprise. Not that it would have mattered anyways, they were well outnumbered, and while the squires behaved bravely, they were no match for the band of men who’d come after them.

As crown prince of Milton, Malcolm regularly took it upon himself to spend personal time with each of the squires, if not individually, then at least in small groups. He’d arranged a day long expedition for himself and the two boys—Marcus and Neil, both brand new squires, barely out of childhood. They rode through the countryside, and Malcolm quizzed them on what they’d both been learning so far, and instructed them on what it meant to be a knight in the Kingdom of Milton. 

The rain of arrows had fallen on them, appearing from out of nowhere, and Malcolm hadn’t even had time to realize what was happening before he’d been hit, the arrow lodging itself in the meat of his thigh. He’d yelled out in shock, hand flying instinctually to grasp at his leg where, doubling over the pommel of his saddle at the sudden, lancing pain that exploded out, sparking along his nerve endings from hip to calf. Somehow, he managed to keep his seat, holding tight to the reins with one hand to keep his horse from bolting in response to Malcolm’s panic and pain.

He’d been able to spare only a brief glance at his young charges, just enough to ensure neither were hit, before the bandits had burst up from their hiding place just behind a small ridge directly ahead of them. The band had charged with a barbaric yell, screaming at the top of their lungs as they rushed forward. Malcolm managed to draw his sword, prepared to fight, but he’d been unbalanced, unable to grasp firmly to his saddle with both legs without causing himself intense pain. He urged his horse ahead of the two squires nonetheless, doing what he could to protect the boys, and swung his sword down at the first man who’d come within striking distance. The bandit deflected the clumsy strike easily, and grabbed hold of Malcolm’s arm, using the momentum of his own swing to easily pull him from his horse.

Malcolm had fallen hard, his full weight landing on the leg where the arrow was still lodged, snapping the shaft and driving what was left further into his flesh. White hot agony ripped through the right side of his body as he hit the ground, driving a scream from his lips which was cut off a fraction of a second later as his ribs hit the hard earth and the breath was driven from his lungs. His head struck the ground an instant later, and the blinding intensity of the pain turned instantly to the black of blessed nothingness.

***

A sharp sting in his cheek is the first thing Malcolm becomes aware of as he’s pulled back into wakefulness. The sting is quickly overshadowed by the throbbing, burning pain that’s centered in his thigh, but radiates out along his whole right side with each beat of his heart. His next breath sounds more like a whine as the pain overtakes him, and threatens to send him back into unconsciousness. Malcolm struggles to blink his eyes open, though his efforts are clearly not enough to satisfy his captor. He’s struck across the face once more, harder than necessary to wake him, especially since he’s already conscious, though not hard enough to do anything more than sting in the aftermath. He grunts at the impact, forcing his eyes open fully, glaring up at the man who’s leaning over him—clearly the one who’d struck him.

“Ah, the boy’s finished with his beauty sleep, it seems. Sorry to wake ya, but we need to have a little chat, and time is a wastin,” the man says. He reaches down and grabs hold of Malcolm’s tunic, yanking him up into a seated position.

Malcolm gasps as the motion jars his injured leg and sore ribs, turning the throbbing ache into something sharper as the injured skin and muscles in his leg are forced to shift and flex. He takes a moment to gather himself, sucking in as deep a breath as he can past the pain in his side, eyes fluttering shut once more as pain washes over him and makes his head spin. Besides the burning in his leg and side, his shoulders and arms are sore as well. They’re tied behind him, and the pressure of having laid on them for who knows how long leaves them stiff and achy. He doesn’t want to, but finally he forces his eyes open and looks down at his thigh.

He can’t see the wound clearly enough to judge the severity of the injury, his blood soaked pant leg is blocking the view. But he can see enough to tell that they must have pulled the arrow out—whatever was left in his leg after he landed on it and snapped the shaft, that is. While it’s clear he’s lost blood, the wound doesn’t seem to be bleeding too profusely any longer. A small mercy.

His next concern is the boys. He finds them easily enough, to his great relief. They’re seated, leaning against each other several yards off from him, with their arms bound behind their backs, feet tied together as well. Marcus has a black eye, and Neil a split lip, and though it’s hard to tell from the distance, their eyes look a bit red and puffy. But, their backs are straight, their heads unbowed, and whatever they’d been through during their capture, they seem to be mostly unscathed. They both look relieved to see him awake and upright, and he gives them a brief nod, trying to fill his gaze with as much courage and strength as he’s able. 

They’re in a clearing in a stand of trees that he thinks he may recognize, not far from where they'd been attacked. It’s hard to tell the position of the sun through the foliage, but it doesn’t seem to yet be midday, which means he hadn’t been out for long at all, likely just long enough to get him here. 

There are seven bandits in the clearing with them; tough and mean looking, unkempt, armored and armed with a rattag variety of equipment that’s almost certainly stolen. 

“Bring the boys here,” the man in front of Malcolm calls out, and there’s a flurry of movement among the men. The boys are lifted, a man on either side of them grabbing hold of biceps or hooking hands under armpits, and dragged over before being dropped unceremoniously just a few feet from Malcolm. They let out pained ‘oofs’ as they hit the ground, but keep stubbornly silent otherwise, and Malcolm can’t help but be proud of their bravery.

“Look, whatever this is about, I think you’re making a mistake,” Malcolm says before the other man has the chance to do anything further to him or the boys.

“And how’s that, pretty boy?” he asks with a smirk.

“Whatever it is you plan on doing with us, you won't get away with it.”

“Ack, you don’t scare me, or my men! What are you gonna do about it?”

Malcolm narrows his eyes, head cocked to the side as he considers the man in front of him and his brash words. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“A posh git who’s loved ones are gonna send us lots of money if they ever wont ta see you back in one piece,” the man replies. 

Malcolm opens his mouth to respond, then snaps it shut, darting a quick glance to his squires and shaking his head ‘no’ when Niel looks ready to argue as well. He’s not entirely sure what these men are playing at, yet, but he can’t help but think that keeping his true identity hidden for the time being isn’t a terrible idea.

“Listen carefully, all of you. Here’s what’s going to happen. You, pretty boy, are gonna stay right here, all comfy and cozy with us, while one of them boys goes back into town, finds whoever it is that cares most for you, and tells ‘em to send back the ransom, or they’ll be getting you back in pieces.”

Malcolm isn’t surprised by the demand, but there’s a minor detail that sets his heart beating faster.

“One of the boys?” he repeats.

“Aye, one of them goes home, the other, well. We’ve no need for two messengers, or hostages.”

Two of the other men draw their knives and step up behind each of the boys, their intent clear as they grab hold of their tunics and hold them in place.

“ _No_ ,” Malcolm hisses out, blood draining from his face, heart clenching in his chest.

“Ah, don’t worry fancy man. We’ll let you choose which you think is more _reliable_. Go on now, whose hands do you want to put your life into?”

“W-what? I, I can’t _choose_! Wait, no, just, just think about this,” Malcolm stammers, his mind racing as he looks between the two boys.

Marcus and Liam are both looking at him with wide, terrified eyes, and he can see tears there, threatening to fall. Liam takes a deep, stuttering breath, puffing out his chest before saying, “Sir, send Marc! He’s got no siblings, no one to take care of his family. I’ve got plenty, they won’t miss me!”

Malcolm shakes his head, feeling tears threatening to well up in his own eyes at the young man’s bravery.

Marcus gasps, turning to glare at his companion, clearly ready to argue, but he’s cut off by the man who seems to be in charge.

“Well then, is that your choice? Seems a pity to kill such a bold little thing.”

The man holding Liam presses his knife to the boy’s neck, and Liam whimpers, tears falling freely down his cheeks.

“No! Damn it, no, that’s not my choice! You fucking bastard, just, wait!” Malcolm cries out, feeling weak and helpless as he pulls at the ties around his wrists, but all his fighting only serves to cause himself more pain.

The man drops to a crouch before Malcolm, reaching out with one hand to take hold of his chin in a bruisingly tight hold. He plants a knee on Malcolm’s right thigh, just below the arrow wound, and leans his weight down onto it.

Malcolm cries out as searing pain shoots along his leg, dots flashing in his vision as the pain builds and builds with no relief as the man continues to press down on his leg. Malcolm jerks in the man’s grip, thrashing, left foot kicking scrambling against the ground as he tries to free his wounded leg from beneath the man’s knee.

“Listen, boy,” the man snarls. “I don’t like bein’ called names, and I don’t like being disobeyed. Now you choose one of them boys to go free, or I’ll kill ‘em both, real slow, right in front of you, and I’ll make ‘em both watch each other die, too.”

Malcolm gasps, vision whiting out as the man leans forward even further, digging his knee into Malcolm’s thigh before finally standing and stalking away to stand by Marcus and Liam.

“I’m, I’m sorry,” Malcolm gasps out, barely managing to keep himself upright. “Shouldn’t have…been rude. Just, please. Don’t kill anyone.” Malcolm takes as deep a breath as he can manage, forcing himself to speak quickly, but clearly, trying to push through the worst of the pain and reason with the man. “Liam’s father has money, he’ll pay for him, too. Maybe you only need one messenger, but two hostages mean twice the payout.”

The man considers him for a long moment, and the silence that falls over the clearing is thick with tension and anticipation. The man reaches out idly, dropping his hand on top of Liam’s head and carding his fingers through his hair almost thoughtlessly, all the while keeping his gaze focused on Malcolm.

Malcolm blinks away spots in his eyes, and feels himself swaying, but he doesn’t back down from the man’s gaze.

“Pretty boy, if you’re lying to me…” the man hisses, fingers tightening in Liam’s hair and yanking. Liam cries out before he can stop himself, biting down on his lip a moment later, trying so hard to be brave.

“I’m not, I swear to you. If his father won’t pay, I will. I promise, you’ll get your money. Just, please, _please_ let them live. They’re just boys, barely more than children,” Malcolm pleads.

The man snorts, releasing Liam with another jerk of his wrist that would send him sprawling to the ground if not for the man still holding onto his tunic.

“Very well. Have it your way.” He turns towards Marcus and begins to cut away the ropes around his ankles. “Listen carefully, boy…”

Malcolm doesn’t hear the rest of it. The fear and adrenaline that had kept him upright since he’d woke drain out of him the moment the man concedes, leaving behind only pain, and it crashes over him, driving him into darkness once more. He’s out before his body hits the ground.

***

Malcolm wakes on his own, the next time; slowly, and still painfully, though the incessant throbbing seems to have dulled, somewhat. He’s laying on his side, but his hands are now bound in front of him, and his head is even cushioned by something softer than earth he’s laying on. He shifts slightly, and _that_ proves to be a bad idea, pain sparking along his leg as soon as he moves, and he moans softly. He feels a touch at his shoulder, and flinches away, hissing as the sudden movement makes everything hurt even more, eyes flying open to find the source of the new threat.

But there is no threat; it’s only Liam, who’s seated next to him and is looking down at him with wide, startled eyes.

“Sire, it’s just me,” the boy whispers. 

“Liam, sorry. You startled me. Are you alright?”

Liam nods. “Yes, sire. Thank you! Thank you, you… you saved my life.” He’s still speaking quietly, and Malcolm guesses that their captors are not far off, though he can’t see them from where he lies.

“I haven’t done much saving of anyone, today,” Malcolm sighs. “You both were so brave, and so strong. I couldn't be more proud of you.”

Liam’s small chest puffs up in pride, and he squares his shoulders at the praise, almost smiling, even. 

“Marcus should be back soon. We didn’t come too far, and they gave him a horse. One of the men is waiting for him on the road, he’ll lead him here when they’re sure he’s alone.,” Liam tells him.

Malcolm nods. “We moved again?”

“Yes. Not far, but they didn’t want Marcus leading anyone back to us.”

It’s clear these men have given this plan some thought. He’s honestly a little surprised that either of them are still alive. There’s no reason for the men not to kill them once they have their money—that is, of course, if Martin even agrees to send money, and doesn’t just send out the entire Royal Guard to find them. Which makes him think…

He gets his arms beneath him, and pushes himself slowly up till he’s sitting once more, biting back on a whimper as he does. Liam helps him as best he can, and slides in close so that Malcolm can lean against him. He glances down at his leg, and is surprised to see that it’s been bandaged, with only a little blood seeping through. 

Liam must notice his surprise, and he explains, “They let me bandage it, and tie your hands in front.”

“Thank you, Liam,” Malcolm tells him, patting the boy’s leg awkwardly with his bound hands. “I’m going to try something now, okay? It might not go so well, but maybe it will help us get out of here sooner.”

Liam nods, eyes so full of trust and acceptance that it nearly makes Malcolm second guess his decision. He steels himself, shoring up his resolve, and calls out, “Where’s the man in charge?”

Said man appears from somewhere behind Malcolm, crossing into his vision with crossed arms, unamused at being summoned.

“Have you figured out who I am, yet?” Malcolm asks, looking up at him steadily, though his hands are shaking slightly, betraying his fear and weakness.

“Does it matter, brat? All I want is my money.”

“That’s the thing. My father doesn’t take to being threatened well. Even if he sends the money, he won’t let you get away with this. If you let us go, now, I promise I’ll do my best to keep him from hunting each of you down and killing you all.”

The man _laughs_ , a loud, snorting sound that makes Liam jump beside him in surprise. 

Malcolm doesn’t react. He keeps his gaze steady, his jaw clenched. 

It isn't exactly a surprise when the man hits him, hard, across the face.

Malcolm’s head whips to the side, and he barely catches himself awkwardly on his bound hands before he can fall back to the ground. Liam cries out in concern beside him, and then launches himself in front of Malcolm, guarding him from whatever the man intends to do next.

“Liam, _no_ ,” Malcolm hisses, because getting the boy hurt was not his intention.

“But, sire!” Liam exclaims, looking back at him with fear-filled eyes and a stubbornly set jaw.

The man stills, looking between them both, realization creeping over his face.

“Sire?” he mutters. “I see…is that how it is, then?”

Malcolm pushes himself up once more with a grunt, leaning on Liam much more than he wants to admit. His body feels weak, sluggish, and not just from the pain. He wonders how much blood he’d lost before Liam was allowed to bandage his wound. He’s panting slightly by the time he’s upright, and sweating. _Sitting up should not be so hard_ , he thinks.

“Yes. My name is Malcolm, Prince of Milton. My father is the king, and he will not just let you go with his money. Leave, now, and you may yet escape with your lives.”

A cloud of doubt passes over the man’s face, and Malcolm thinks it’s possible he even sees a hint of fear, but it’s gone as soon as it had appeared. 

“The king is a fat old man, more interested in his books and potions than in fighting. That’s why he sends you to do his dirty work, isn’t it?” the man sneers.

Malcolm shakes his head, gritting his teeth. The man has no idea how wrong he is, has no idea what his father is capable of, the pleasure he takes in causing pain…

Before he can say anymore, there’s a commotion through the trees, drawing the man’s attention as a small group of three riders approaches through.

It takes only a moment for Malcolm to recognize first Marcus, and then… _Gil_.

His knight is dressed plainly, no chainmail or helmet, just his sword and leather jerkin, and Malcolm has never been more glad to see him. He hopes, _prays_ , that JT and Dani are nearby, and that this will all be over soon.

“What is this? Who the hell is he?” the man yells, rushing to meet the small party, glaring daggers at the man who had escorted Marcus and Gil to their site.

Gil glances over at him, expression hardening, and risks one, tiny nod, before turning his attention to the man.

Malcolm waits, almost forgetting to breath, hating that he doesn’t know what’s happening, trusting that his knight must have a plan, must know what he’s doing, that he wouldn’t come here, practically unarmed in a sorry rescue attempt all on his own that’s likely to get them both killed…

“I was sent with the boy to guard the money. It’s a lot of gold to be put in the hands of one so young,” Gil explains. He sits still, keeps his voice calm, steady, showing no signs of aggression. 

Marcus reaches behind him, freeing a bag from where it’s tied to his saddle. All eyes are on him as he begins to hand over the pouch of what is presumably their payment.

When Dani and JT strike, they do so silently, without any yelling or shouting to alert the bandits of their presence. Despite the uneven odds, the fight is over before it even begins. They kill three men before the rest even realize what’s happening, and it takes mere seconds for the rest to lay down their arms.

The man in charge snarls, reaching for his sword, but Gil has his drawn in a flash, the tip pressed to his neck, just below his chin.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I won’t hesitate to slit your throat, though I think the king would prefer I didn’t. He very much wants to speak with the man who thought he could hold his son for ransom,” Gil tells him, his voice deadly calm.

The man drops his sword as well, and Dani and JT begin securing their prisoners as Gil dismounts.

“I did try to warn you,” Malcolm calls out, and the man shoots him a hateful look before Gil is yanking his arms roughly behind him.

Malcolm sinks back to the ground, eyes heavy, threatening to close once more. A moment later, a shadow crosses over his face, and then Gil is there, kneeling beside him, running gentle fingers through his hair as he looks him over.

“I told you you should let me accompany you,” he grumbles, hand hovering uncertainly over the bandage on Malcolm’s leg.

Maloclm huffs, grinning slightly even as his eyes slip closed. “Do we ‘ave t’ do this now?” he slurs out. He can’t seem to get his eyes to open once more, and as he feels himself slip into darkness once more, his last conscious thought is pity for the captured men, a shudder running through him as he thinks of what his father will do to those who dared to hurt his son.


End file.
